Daydreams of a very naughty girl…

Paul rose from his chair and towered over Laura, backlit by moonlight and overwhelming. He stood, motionless, as her mind raced with anticipation. After several minutes, a rough hand grasped her chin, tilting her head up to meet his invisible glare.

‘Say your name.’ He growled.

Dry mouthed, Laura drew a ragged breath and stuttered ‘L…Laura.’

‘All of it.’

‘Laura Eleanor Radcliffe, Lady of Radcliffe House and wife to the Lord Lieutenant Sir Paul Radcliffe of York.’

His hand, a vice grip on her jaw, tightened even further. She whimpered, her pulse racing as the dance she’d dreamt of for many years began to materialise around her. Soaked by her warm juices, the floor was slick beneath her, and her scent filled the air.

‘Indeed.’

The black shape of her husband moved, and a soft noise in front of her set her head spinning. He was unlacing.

He wrenched her jaw down, and hooked a gnarled thumb in the corner of her plump lips. It was followed by his pulsating head, which forced her mouth wider still as he pushed all of his not inconsiderable cock between her teeth, over her tongue and down her throat. She gagged, her stomach flipping, as he withdrew just as quickly.

‘Again.’ He snarled.

‘Laura Eleanor Radcliffe, Lady of Radcliffe House and wife to the Lord Lieutenant Sir Paul Radcliffe of York.’ She gasped, his index finger feeling the shape of the words on her lips. Her nipples ached, the cold room and the furnace of her desperate need combining to make them pucker into points almost like iron in their hardness.

He opened her mouth again, and rammed his prick into her maw all the way to the hilt. He paused, throbbing against her tongue, and Laura took the opportunity like a rope from a passing ship to a drowning man. She drew her lips closed, his grey thicket invading her mouth and nose, and attempted to swallow. The contraction of the muscles caused her Lord to grunt and twitch, and his hand slid to the back of her head. He took a handful of hair, and tightened his grip.

The pain was exquisite. Her mouth full of cock, her scalp burning, Laura could bear it no longer. As she sucked, her husband tore her head back and forth, fucking her mouth as her saliva plastered his groin and her face. Her hands, pre-emptively behind her back, moved forwards over her quivering thighs. One travelled north, to slide over the soft, heavy pillow of her breast. She pinched her nipple, twisting and pulling until the pain matched her head. The other hand went south, grabbing at her soft, black haired mound and squeezing hard. Her pale fingers shook as she slid them over her pounding slit. It felt like hot, drenched satin, her inner lips smooth and puffy as they parted. Her clit screamed white pleasure up her spine as she sped her fingers around and over it, matching her speed to her husband’s arm, as he used her mouth as a boy would a fist. She plunged two fingers as deep as she could into her sodden cunt, curling them to find the locus of her ecstasy.

Paul fucked her mouth with no expression, save for an intent look of concentration. His actions spoke louder than his face could, however, as he thrust against her bruising lips with hatred. He came almost silently, his near boiling filth pouring down her throat, her swallows the only noise to punctuate her muffled moans. As she arrived at her own shuddering orgasm he pulled her up by her throat to dangle in front of his eyes, her legs pressed together over her hand, her honey dribbling down her thighs.

He dropped her to the floor, to land in a heap in the now cold pool her wetness had made, and left without a word.

Paul stared at the table. Cleared by the kitchen staff earlier, he’d glowered at the grain of the wood for well over an hour. Laura had provided him with her usual charming presence, and had disappeared in her usual fashion to the usual place. The cross that nestled askew on those milky orbs had a lot to answer for. He’d never really enjoyed religion, but kept up appearances for staff that might tell tales in local ale houses. Anything could, and often did get back to the queen, and he would hate to end a life of battle and endurance with such a pale traitor’s death. So he married a decent, catholic girl, who did her decent, catholic things and never her decent, catholic husband. Consequently he spent his life in a series of cold rooms, or in a vast expanse of cold woodlands and thought thoroughly indecent, heathen thoughts.

The brush of skirt on stone roused him from lamenting his final, apparently fuckless years. Anne, her name was, one of the handmaidens he’d given room and board to shortly after his marriage. 18, with the pale eyes and red hair of a border girl. He’d known her mother, a brutal and hilarious woman who had died the year before of a short illness that had made skeletal the great globe of a woman he’d drank with well after her husband had collapsed on the floor. Her daughter had inherited her russet hair and pale blue eyes, but her father’s height and slim build. Anne stood in the half light, her eyes cast at the ground, biting her bottom lip.

‘What is it, girl?’ Questioned Paul, marvelling at the way she moved into the room and towards him, the stalking walk of an assassin or dancer from one of the warm countries. Her heavy skirts were wet from the ground, but her steps were still nimble as a doe. Small, no doubt perfect breasts shook as their cold and terrified owner tried to calm her nerves. Paul would give anything to cup one of those upturned little buds and taste her sweet, copper topped cunt. Perhaps she’d squeal like her mother when he hefted his pulsing cock into her tight hole, his calloused thumb buried in her arse. Perhaps she’d let him find out.

‘I don’t mean to disturb you, my lord, but I fear I must. My lord has been so kind to me, giving me this position…’ Anne trailed off, fumbling with the fold of her skirts nervously. ‘My lord, my lady is lying with lord William. I cannot lie under the watch of God, and I will not lie to you. I’m sorry, sire.’ Finished, she glanced up and found a thunderous face staring back at her.

Darkness overcame Paul. That filthy cunt. Dirty, stinking whore. Will, the cocky bastard, he was more his mother’s son with each year, slipping that vile rod of his to any female within five miles of the house that would lift her skirts. He should have known.

‘You’ve seen this?’

‘Yes, sire. I came from the kitchen to go to bed and… well, they are not being quiet, my lord.’ She blushed.

Paul drew his hand over his face, rubbing the stubble that peppered the crags of a visage once called handsome by some.

‘Go to bed, Anne. Pretend to sleep, say nothing of this to anyone.’

——

Laura awoke with a start. The fire had burnt down to embers, leaving a chill in the air. She yearned for Will’s warm chest and hot mouth, but he had left after fucking her raw, while she had still been gasping for breath, beaded with sweat and shaking. Now, a new shape filled her doorway, a new shape that all at once seemed so similar and so different to Will’s.

‘Paul?’ She mumbled, peering into the blackness. The shape moved silently towards her, stopping in the middle of the room. The features of her husband barely discernible in the moonlight seemed cold, emotionless. The eyes that’d once so hungrily stared at her moistening quim were pools of dark in a countenance full of nothing. He sat in the wooden chair by her reading table and regarded her silently.

‘Come here.’ Murmured Paul, his voice deep and rough as the bough of a ship scraping black rock. His eyes didn’t waver as his wife scrambled out of bed, her white breasts swinging and her thighs still sticky with the token of Will’s appreciation. She approached him, scared and cold, her blushing nipples hard as diamonds in the frigid air. She stood while he seemed to appraise her, his eyes travelling languidly down her buxom form. When they reached her tired and aching pussy they stopped, and his emotionless stare shifted subtly to anger.

His eyes blazed up at her.

‘Kneel.’

Laura did as she was told, her white knees painful the moment they touched the unforgiving stone floor. The night had made them ice, and the cold travelled up her thighs, prickling them with goosebumps. Paul placed a boot between them, moving her legs further apart until she knelt, legs splayed, labia a hand’s breadth from the floor. Her fear intermingled with anticipation, her terror with the familiar heartbeat that welled up deep within the folds of her twat, puffing the lips her husband’s son had tasted, spread and slid between only hours before. She desperately wanted to know what, if anything, Paul knew. She had no way of knowing why he’d come, but only one way to temper his anger.

Nothing of note was happening. Laura traced the grain of the thick oak table beneath her fingertips, following it under heavy cream linen, and sighed as hard as she could without coughing. Her husband woke with a start, his napkin sliding down his chest and crumpling on his knee.

‘She’s the very wife of the devil, Lamb’ spluttered Paul, hoping the new addition to his young wife’s ladies in waiting was still the topic of her grumblings. There was always something wrong. Paul couldn’t understand how a young, comely woman like Laura could find so much to complain about, with all her life stretched out before her. In the short time they’d been married he’d felt the pleasures of those soft thighs only once and she’d avoided his eye then, too.

Long gone were the days of Maria, his first wife. She’d welcomed him home from years bathing in the blood of the French with open arms, legs and everything else. The night he’d returned, aching and tired, she bathed his wounds and distracted him from the pain well. He’d left her a timid maid, barely speaking a word of English and had returned to a woman who spoke perfectly, in a warm Spanish purr. In the years since her death in childbirth he’d been alone until Laura was sent his way, rich in land but poor in title. Twenty two, a widow at twenty and apparently barren. Her father had practically begged him. She was a year older than his son.

‘Aye.’ He muttered. The girl knelt often, but never in the manner that would make up for all the velvets and pearls he bought her.

Watching her rise, her throat and breasts heaved past his face, close enough to smell the warmth of her. She lingered a second, removing her napkin and brushing off her skirts vigorously. Paul gazed unabashedly, congratulating himself silently on at least having married another woman whose tits could kill a man with enough force. Pressed together by her corset, powdered and juicy, he remembered those pink, soft areolae in the candlelight. They’d puckered at his lips, regardless of her apparent coldness. As he’d bent her over and slid his hand down her belly, he’d encountered a thicket of inky black curls that were already damp, and a cunt that was hotter than a brazier and soaked in honey.

——

Laura swept out of the hall and out into the courtyard, and the hammering rain. In the five seconds it took her to cross and enter her rooms she was drenched. Her hair plastered down onto her shoulders and neck, and her heavy velvets suddenly weighed more than granite. She slopped up the worn steps to her own bedchamber, a warm retreat from the cold bedroom her husband preferred, and as far away as it was possible to get within the same building. Her ladies had lit a fire and candles, and after removing her sodden dress and undergarments had left her to brush her hair in a dry shift. The linen had been washed often, and softly draped over her bare skin. Goosebumps across her thighs and shoulders smoothed as she sat near the fire, staring into the spitting wood and letting her mind wander.

Paul would never join her in her private chapel, preferring another draughty hall on his side, and he’d never climbed the steps to her chamber. Instead, he summoned her on the one occasion he desired her company, in a note that explained she was to present herself as a lover. She’d not minded it as much as she had expected. Opening the door to his rooms he’d regarded her from his chair with stern grey eyes and told her to come to him. Undoing her heavy woollen cloak she let it fall, the rough yarn scuffing her nipples. She padded to him, her disgust at his age diminishing a little. In this low light he had a look of his son, William, and the way he stared between her legs was as if he’d seen a hidden treasure yet to steal. When she reached him he stood, and without a word bent his lips to her neck, grazing the gossamer skin down her décolletage to the fullness of her breast, his stubble scratching all the way. He lifted her breasts, cupping them in hands still strong enough to wield a sword, sinking thick fingers into them like warm dough and hungrily sucked her nipple with painful eagerness. Laura fought herself, hated the growing pulse in her pussy, hated that this elderly stranger seemed to know exactly how she liked to be touched. When he’d plunged first one, then two fingers into her she’d shut her eyes and imagined he was William.

——

The oak door creaked, and William cursed under his breath. Peering round the corner, he needn’t have worried. The ante room was empty, and where he was expecting to find sleeping women he found empty beds and only moonlight. Across from him, the inner door was ajar, and bathed in the light of several candles and a merrily crackling fire. He tiptoed to it, and whispered ‘Laura?’

‘Come in, the girls are away in the kitchens, I asked them to give me some peace.’

William rounded the door, shutting and locking in behind him. His cock had been hard since he left his rooms in the north of the house, and now he could finally release it. Laura raised herself off the bed, meeting him in the middle of the room. He took her in his arm, kissed her hard, as his other hand scrabbled at her linen shift, dragging it up and over her wide hips. She tore at the laces on his breeches, until her cool fingers brushed hot, hard, straining flesh. Laura sank to her knees and slid her hand down him to the base of his cock. She kissed the tip, her soft lips parting to allow her tongue to swirl around and down the shaft, taking most of him into her mouth. His prick twitched against her throat as he shuddered with pleasure, his knees buckling as she slurped her way up and down, her wet hand following her mouth.

Laura could bear it no longer, and clambered up onto the end of her bed. Will’s eyes opened to hers dancing, a smile curling up the edges of her talented lips. Her thighs shivered as they parted, and the hands that had brandished him so deftly slid up them to her glistening mound. Luxurious curls sprang between her fingers as she stroked her labia gently. He settled on his knees between her feet, inhaling her musk as he kissed along her inner thigh.

Laura sighed and relaxed back onto the bed as William brushed his bristled mouth across her plush outer lips. He spread them with his fingers, and took a second to admire the rosy cunt that glittered in the dancing light of the fire. He ran his tongue between his digits, up her inner folds and parting them at the top, pressing slowly on the hard pearl of her clitoris, twitching under it’s hood. He drew it between his teeth, clamping his lips around it and sucking gently. She bucked, yelping, and he pressed her back down on her back with ease, his huge, black furred hand sinking into the milky flesh of her unblemished stomach. She mewled helplessly as his thick middle finger suddenly thrust into her moist hole, fucking it’s way in and out with dexterous twisting and twitching, hard knuckles pounding into her soft mound. With a final gargled cry, Laura came, a jet of fluid spurting up Will’s forearm and matting his ebony hair. His grey eyes flashed up at hers, his wet hand grasping her jaw to hold her gaze as he guided the first few inches of thick, pounding cock into her quivering cunt.